


Until We Bleed

by ArtsyAfrodite



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: M/M, PTSD, Self Harm, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-08-22
Updated: 2013-08-22
Packaged: 2017-12-24 07:03:28
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,700
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/936828
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ArtsyAfrodite/pseuds/ArtsyAfrodite
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ian, just back from Afghanistan, reunites with Mickey.  But, his humanness has been tested, and there's only one thing he knows to do, that will let him know he's still human.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Please note: This fic contains self-harm. If this is a trigger for anyone, please do not read.

“It’s like a red, hot poison you know.”

Mickey shot Ian a glance, his face initially veiled in confusion mixed with something bordering sarcasm.  He gripped the neck of his beer bottle with his left hand tight, the inked  _U-UP_  on his knuckles stretching to a new font size.  Any tighter and the neck would’ve shattered, the shards of glass more than needed to cut through the new tension with its jagged edges.   _What’s he getting at?_

He brushed the thumb on his right hand across his bottom lip.  He would ask anything cautiously – plant Ian with a  _kiss_  right now.   _Keep it simple stupid._

“What is?”

There was no room for  _digging at_ , or  _cutting out of_  at this moment.

“Blood,” the redhead answered staring straight ahead.

“I’m not following you.”

Ian adjusted himself against the headboard of the motel bed, lining his back against the tattered wood, forming a 90 degree angle with his body.  The cheap, stained mattress squeaked with each move, his naked body partly covered from the waist down by the shitty thread count.

“Your knuckles.  They’re bleeding.”  He was still looking straight, his green eyes fixed on the peeling wall behind the television, and gripping an unlit, half-smoked cigarette between his index and middle finger.  He had yet to re-light it.  “You should wash that off.”

Mickey glanced down at his right hand.  It  _was_ bleeding.  He had put his fist through a wall at home earlier after getting in an argument with Iggy.  Terry had just connected his own fist with Mickey’s left eye, after he told his dad he couldn’t make the run with them because he had “other plans.”  Iggy told him he had it coming.   _“Never turn down a run for dick.”_   He had found out his younger brother was gay a year earlier after stumbling upon his stash of gay porn and colorful collection of dildos, while looking for weed in his closet.  What an appropriate place for them.  Mickey still kept a part of himself there, stacked neatly next to “Young Hot Twinks.”

_“I know the redhead’s back.”_   The hole in the wall knew now, too.

The scrapes and cuts on his knuckles had re-opened, probably from each firm, desperate grip of the pillow placed in perfect timing with every one of Ian’s hard thrusts.  Or maybe it was from the rough way Ian twined his fingers in his, violently slamming them against the wall above his head while lips and teeth clashed, and their tongues warred.  Mickey was sure he tasted blood in his mouth, so it was no surprise an old wound had decided to bleed again.  It was the perfect parallel after all, the re-opening of  _old wounds_.  Mickey swallowed hard at the “Aha!” moment, tasting yeast and nicotine, and iron.

“Yeah, I’ll take care of that.”  Mickey looked up at Ian, whose eyes were now intensely staring down at the fleshed crevices forming river-like lines of red liquid, spilling over black inked letters.  His eyes then met Mickey’s, and for a moment he was lost – lost in lust and love, sorrow and shades of jade.  The younger boy lifted his right hand, cupping Mickey’s left cheek while tracing lines along the bluish-purple bruise beneath his eye.

“Terry?”

“Yeah.”

Ian leaned forward, pressing his forehead into Mickey’s before tracing his lips along the bruise, following the imaginary lines left by his fingers.  The older boy closed his eyes and leaned into the action.  Being together these last few hours in this seedy motel after four years,  _four fucking years minimum_  to be exact, allowed Mickey to do all the shit fear kept kicked into his chest, making breathing a second job.  He knew he was being way too  _gay_  in this moment, but the mixture of sex and sweat, strange and sweet was intoxicating.   _It’s nobody here but us._

“Some things never change,” Ian whispered into the bluest eye before pulling away.  He leaned back against the headboard, grabbing the lighter from the nightstand, and lit the cigarette he managed to keep in between his fingers.  He inhaled deep, and Mickey thought about the freckles he counted on Ian’s chest as he watched it expand.

Mickey stood up out of the bed, his pale, naked body looking almost yellow against the dingy motel light.  He glanced down at the crumpled sheets and noticed drops of blood there, guaranteed to  _not_ wash out.  He made his way to the bathroom, cracking his neck along the way – the angles Ian had him in tonight were acrobatic to say the least, and a bit more than his body could handle, but craved.  The need for this type of pain was so deep and decadent.  And when did Ian get so fucking strong?  The redhead had always been strong, but not  _this_ strong. 

War will do that to you, make you stronger even if strength was never scarce.  It’s a harsh muscle added though, the extra power lined in something sinister and too cold to talk about without hurting the enamel on your teeth.   

As he let cold water run down his wounds, his thoughts followed suit.   _Dripping. Running._ He watched as red tinges mixed in the water, making its way down the drain, straight down to a dark, dank demise into obscurity.  But the blood would always be there, somewhere.  Mickey examined himself in the mirror, squaring his shoulders and studying the bruise under his eye.  He was always bruised someplace, and scarred someplace else – but the biggest mark of them all was out there, in the dust of the motel room, laid beautifully across the bed sheets he just fucked him on.   _Here we go._

Mickey made his way back into the room, stepping on pieces of clothing and empty condom rappers as he made his way to the bed.  Ian was laying completely flat on his back now, staring at the ceiling, the sheets fully removed off of his freckled body.  Maybe if he stared long enough, hard enough, his gaze would pierce through water stains and drywall, shooting straight to the heavens, or whatever was up there.

“Way to expose yourself firecrotch.”  The old nickname elicited a hoarse chuckle from Ian’s throat.

“Sheets got hot,” Ian responded still staring at the ceiling.  “And sticky.”

“That’s all you and me.”

Ian turned completely on his left side, dark hair, pale skin and blue eyes directly in his line of view now.  “It is.”

And now was the time.  Mickey raised an eyebrow, and Ian hadn’t blinked for what felt like an eternity.  He was running his fingers along the proof of his earlier off statement, and as Mickey caught the glimpse, Ian almost in a trance while he traced his own scars, he suddenly felt sick to his stomach. 

“Why’d you do it?

“It was necessary Mick.”  Ian’s voice was shaky.

Mickey grabbed both of Ian’s hands, bringing them closer to his chest.  He traced the small, raised lines starting at his wrists and making their way up his forearms with the pads of his fingers.  Ian shivered at each touch, closing his eyes.  Mickey looked at him, catching each breath from Ian’s exhale as his own inhale.  It’s a rare moment for Mickey, recognizing the ways two people can become one.  “Talk to me,” he whispered.

“I needed to know what it felt like to still be – “ Ian cut himself off, opening his eyes to meet Mickey’s gaze, breathing slow and deep.  “To still be human.”

Mickey knew Ian had just gotten back from Afghanistan, knew he went because of  _him_ , searching for a way to fight off rejection and pain.  But the thing about pain is, no matter how hard you fight it, beat it down and stomp it, it will do the same to you – twice as hard.  Ian’s breath cut short for a moment, and Mickey felt like he couldn’t inhale.   _Please, just exhale._

“The things I saw over there Mick,” Ian continued in a lengthy exhale.  “The things I had to do, they told me I was no longer human.”

“But why do  _this_  to yourself?”  And the last word almost caught in Mickey’s throat, the sharpness of the question cutting and slicing on its way out.  Sensitivity was not his forte, never was, but he was trying for Ian these days. 

“I needed to know.  So I did what I felt was necessary to make me feel human again…”

_“Gallagher, what the fuck?”_

_Ian was so silent in his actions, not even hissing from the pain, so it was no surprise that one of the soldiers had barged in the bathroom on him.  He had of course forgotten to lock the door.  The soldier looked down at Ian’s arms in horror.  A red stained blade fell into the bathroom sink, painting crimson lines against the white.  “I needed to do this.”_

_“I know things have been really fucked up Gallagher, but cutting yourself?  Jesus!”  The soldier frantically made his way towards Ian, trying his best to alleviate the situation._

_“Keep these fucking towels off of me, and let me bleed.”_

“…and what better way to do that, than bleeding?”

War will certainly fuck you up.  And suddenly the black homage on his knuckles just seemed so  _stupid_.  It was a mockery now, the  _FUCK U-UP_ not even close to the truth of it all.  Mickey continued to trace the scars on the redhead’s arms as he continued.

“But it’s like a red, hot poison you know.  And if you let it seep into your skin too long, all that shit that’s contained within it will stain you for life.”

“Then why do it?” Mickey asked.  Ian moved in closer to the older boy until their faces were an inch apart.

“It’s the one common thing that we all have that  _really_ lets us know.  And you can never truly tell if you’re still human – until you  _bleed_.”

Mickey glanced down at his own cuts on his knuckles, the blood dried and clotted now, then looked back into Ian’s deep, green eyes.  He exhaled into Ian’s inhale.

“Until _we_ bleed,” he whispered.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I got a tortured mind  
> and my blade is sharp,  
> a bad combination  
> in the dark."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: This fic contains self harm, violence and PTSD. Please do not not read if these are triggers for you.

This was probably dangerous.

Ian coughed as he opened a box of belongings Lip had dropped off, and Mickey felt his chest tighten at the sound.  Most of the things in Ian’s new apartment were already lingering, put in place amongst the shittiness the red head seemed to grow accustomed to, and preferred.  Mickey was staying at Ian’s place pretty regularly now, about four days out of the week.  The crappy motel rooms were starting to get to him, so he was glad when Ian finally got settled someplace, although lying to Terry about where he was most nights was tedious and tiring.  He had to monitor his steps, constantly walking on eggshells – except with Terry it was more like walking on glass.  Mandy was the only one who really knew, Iggy just suspected, so he could be normal in his steps around his sister, streaming on actual firm ground. 

Mickey watched the muscles in Ian’s back as he angled himself, sifting through his mess.  His green eyes danced off of the walls, avoiding Mickey’s face, a question hovering and covered in the dust that settled in the cracks.  He rubbed the bruises on the side of his neck, shapely combinations of fingers and teeth, as Mickey fiddled with the broken lamp in the corner of the living room – a reminder of what happens when you choose not to answer what is asked of you.

~~~

_“Do you love me?  Did you ever love me?”_

_Ian was starting to think out loud now; a new trait more than necessary and less than attractive.  The haunting baseline in the background banged on the shitty apartment walls to no end.  Mickey’s skin crawled and if the reverberating arrangement to a familiar tune didn’t make his ears bleed, Ian’s question certainly would.  The younger boy’s eyes were wild with – something.  Rage?  Desire?  Insanity?  A cocktail of all three was the best guess, not educated, but pulled out of the depths of an experienced gut.  And why the fuck was he playing this song again?  Mickey’s mind hurt, and his feet twitched to do the old dance he knew best; to run._

_Despite Ian’s question, disturbing enough for the older boy, his ears did what his eyes couldn’t and concentrated on short guitar riffs and lyrics that fit his lover all too well –_

_“And that’s me, that’s me_

_The boy with the broken halo…”_

_“What the fuck do you want me to say?”  Mickey’s question had to be rhetorical.  Ian cracked his neck then began shaking his head._

_“Shame.”_

_“What Gallagher?”_

_“You can’t even be honest after all this time.”_

_“Fuck you!  You think it’s that easy?”  Mickey’s voice got louder, and the music seemed to react and follow suit, the baseline louder, the lyrics piercing more than ears.  It was shaking the loose paint on the walls –_

_“…And that’s me, that’s me_

_The devil won’t let me be.”_

_A screeching guitar riff hit the ceiling and Ian charged at Mickey.  The Black Keys made him do it.  This was Mickey’s lame explanation.  Supposedly love caused the older boy to make it up.  The music was to blame, laced in the residual smell of war and PTSD.  Soldiers in Ian’s platoon were fond of the brothers, their songs their battle soundtrack.  No one should ever have something as common as music be a constant reminder of why nightmares kept you up at night and the sharp edges of a blade knew your skin all too well.  That would make the most put together person lose their shit and fall apart.  And truth be told, Ian left already struggling to keep his own seams stitched together._

_But Mickey loved him.  He did.  He loved him no matter how fucked up he was.  He just couldn’t say it out loud._

_A fist connected with his chin, and the older boy stumbled backwards, crashing into a shitty lamp that stood in a shitty corner.  Shards of glass cut his elbows when he landed on the floor, Ian falling on top of him.  The red head began to repeatedly strike him…hard.  Mickey managed to hit him in the throat, a move used on him years ago as he beat that old guy’s ass, and it was effective.  Ian caught his throat, and fell backwards, Mickey on top of him in seconds._

_When you black out, you really don’t know what you’re doing._

_Before Mickey knew it, he was choking Ian.  The younger boy’s face turned the color of his hair as he gasped for breath, his fingernails clawing at Mickey’s face.  He managed to claw a stripe across Mickey’s jaw and above his left eyebrow, the blood running into his eye.  It burned, and shit, it must have made Mickey come to, because when he looked into Ian’s eyes he stopped.  His green eyes were so sad and empty and Mickey felt like an idiot.  Then a flash of, something, came across Ian’s eyes.  It was want?  Need?_

_Then Ian growled and Mickey grabbed a fist full of red hair as the younger boy grabbed him by his hips, lifting him up in one swift motion.  Fuck, Ian was strong.  He threw the older boy on the nearest couch landing on top of him, and Mickey brutally bit down on his neck.  A love bite.  Because that’s what it was with them, right?_

_They fucked, angrily.  And for the first time, Mickey found himself afraid of Ian._

_~~~_

“Don’t worry about that,” Ian said, as he walked towards Mickey.  He was looking at him now.

“I can fix it.”  Mickey averted his eyes from Ian’s and continued to fiddle with the lamp.

“Mick, leave it alone.”

“I’ve already started.”

“It’s a piece of shit.”  And it was, but Mickey had to fix it; had to fix something.  Him and Ian were currently broken, a beautiful mess that Mickey somehow wanted to stay covered in.  Besides, the two of them had never actually been anything _normal._   “Please, just – “ Ian cut himself off.  He gently grabbed one of Mickey’s wrists, and began to pull him towards the couch.

“What is it?” Mickey asked, apprehensive.

“Please, just sit with me for a minute, will you?” 

So Ian now had these – episodes.  He got in these moods once or twice a week, where he begged Mickey to sit on the couch with him, subsequently curling into the older boy’s side.  He’d place his arms around his waist, gripping him tight as he squeezed his eyes shut.  Ian never cried when doing this, and Mickey found this odd.  Nevertheless, he would let the younger boy squeeze him as tight and as long as he needed, and although he never said, _“I’m here,”_ Mickey was always thinking it.  Once, Ian did this after a round of sex on the couch.  They were naked, and Mickey’s skin tingled from the sensation of the raised scars on Ian’s wrists and forearms brushing his lower back and stomach.  Some were battle scars, others scars of the mind; both self-inflicted.

Ian hadn’t cut himself anymore since his first night back in the motel.  Mickey had woken up around 4:30am to take a piss, only to find Ian’s side of the bed empty.  He made his way to the bathroom, and the horror that spread across his face upon opening the door must have hit Ian hard, because the red head began to cry and shake, the blood from his wrists landing on Mickey’s feet as he grabbed for him.

Mickey didn’t understand why, but right then, the urge to tell Ian he loved him had never been so strong.

As they sat on the couch, Ian curled in his usual position nuzzling into Mickey’s side, the dark haired boy picked up the remote to turn on the flat screen television.  This was the nicest and newest thing in Ian’s apartment.  He flipped randomly through the channels, nothing remotely good playing, so he went to the OnDemand menu and found something he and Ian would both enjoy.  Even in their twenties, Toy Story was still a movie they got a kick out of.  Of course Ian wasn’t watching.  So Mickey watched it alone, the urge to stroke Ian’s hair burning in his fingertips.

About thirty minutes into the movie, Mickey’s phone buzzed.  He glanced down at Ian, clearly asleep now.  It was a message from Lip.

[ **Lip  5:35pm:**  How’s he doing?]

[ **Mickey  5:37pm:** ok i guess.  sleeping right now]

Something unexpected came out of Ian’s return – a quasi friendship, one could classify it, between Lip and Mickey.  It was bred out of pure concern for the red head, initiated the day after his return. 

~~~

_He was so fucked up.  Hearing about it, caressing the aftermath of it, was different than actually seeing it._

_Mickey sat on the edge of his bed, his leg dancing up and down as he nervously chewed at his bottom Lip.  He didn’t know what to do.  Mandy?  Nope, too emotional.  Fiona?  Definitely not; too motherly.  After wracking his brain with prospects, the few there were, one name finally made sense.  Lip._

_Ian was far gone, and this disturbed Mickey.  He wasn’t one to ask for help, but for Ian, he was willing to go against his own grain.  He decided to text Mandy, asking her for Lip’s number, and after a few interrogating questions, she finally text it back to him._

_He called.  Because texting this, even Mickey recognized wasn’t proper.  His fingers were heavy as he dialed._

_“Hello?” Lip answered._

_“Hey Lip.  It’s Mickey.”_

_“How’d you get my number?”_

_“Mandy.  It’s about Galla – Ian.”_

_“What about him?” Lip was sounding slightly defensive at this point._

_“I think he needs help.”_

_~~~_

[ **Lip  5:40pm:** K. Let me know if he needs anything.]

[ **Mickey  5:43pm:** k]

[ **Lip  5:50pm:** And if he freaks out like he did last night, call me.  Don’t want things escalating to something serious.]

[ **Mickey  5:56pm:** no prob]

Mickey shared what happened last night between him and Ian with Lip, sans the angry fucking.  They met up earlier at the Alibi, something they did now, and he told the older Gallagher about his younger brother suddenly snapping, losing his shit.  Lip squinted his eyes as he scratched his head, mumbling _“Probably PTSD”_ as he thought.  He told Mickey to let him gather his thoughts and do his research, and that he would be over later to drop off some of Ian’s belongings.  And as usual – not to mention their conversations to Ian.  They had yet to suggest any type of help to him.

If anyone knew how to keep their mouth shut, it was Mickey.

About another thirty minutes passed, and Ian began to stir beneath Mickey.  He yawned, stretching his long arms and legs as he turned on his back.  He blinked his eyes open, looking directly into Mickey’s face, a sleepy grin forming.

“Must have dozed off,” he said, sleep still in his voice.  Mickey enjoyed Ian like this the most, fresh out of sleep, not yet thinking.  He seemed happiest during these moments.  “You staying tonight?”

“Yeah.”

“Good,” Ian answered as he sat up.  “You hungry?  I could make us something.”  Ian stood and made his way to the kitchen.  It was small, but it was open with a breakfast bar that jutted out from the wall with three tall chairs.  This was Ian’s favorite thing about the kitchen, the fact it looked out into the living room.

“You don’t have to cook.  I can order something,” Mickey responded, following Ian.  “Besides, you can’t cook.”  Ian chuckled at Mickey’s comment; a sound the older boy was always looking for.  “Chinese?  Pizza?”

“Could go for Chinese.”  Ian sat at the bar as Mickey dialed to order their usual from their favorite Chinese restaurant.  The red head’s face then became sullen and serious.  Mickey hung up with the restaurant and leaned on the bar, directly across from Ian.

“What’s the matter?” Mickey asked concerned.  Ian slightly dropped his head.

“I think I need help Mick.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was a one shot that I mentioned making into a multi-chapter fic, and I have! Sorry if it's a bid twisted and sad, but I've been wanting to write about Ian suffering from PTSD for a while. It gets better though, I promise! I'm thinking this fic will be around 10 chapters, not sure yet. This chapter was inspired by the song "Sinister Kid" by The Black Keys, as you can see from the lyrics throughout, lol. Hope you enjoyed and thanks for reading. :)

**Author's Note:**

> This one shot came kind of suddenly, musically inspired by the song "Until We Bleed" by Kleerup. I got horribly stumped when working on Chapter 5 of my current fic (In This Room), so I put on some music. This song came on, and the idea just came, and I couldn't shake it out, so I wrote it out. It has the potential to be a multi-chapter fic (still debating), depending on the response. I hope you guys enjoy! :)


End file.
